The Night People by Edward D. Hoch Page A

article on him.”
    Juan Vyano shrugged. “There is no grave.”
    Kane was beginning to lose patience. “What do you mean? There must be a grave. Was he cremated?”
    “No. But there is no grave to see. It is unmarked.”
    “Do you know who Ramon Mandown was?”
    “Certainly. He was a close friend of mine, of us all.”
    “Have you read his poems?”
    Vyano nodded. “Some of them, yes. They are very beautiful.”
    “Mandown is a world-famous literary figure. He is certainly the greatest man your poor village ever produced. And you tell me he is buried in an unmarked grave?”
    “I am sorry, but that is correct.”
    “All right. Could I see it?”
    “What good would it do?”
    Kane shifted the camera to his other shoulder, feeling the leather strap suddenly heavy through his clothing. “Look, what about Mandown’s wife, Carla? Could you take me to her house?”
    The dark eyes narrowed. “How did you know her name?”
    “It’s on the backs of all his book jackets. Does that satisfy you?”
    Vyano nodded. “Do not excite yourself. Carla Mandown is dead also.”
    “All right.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised. What did poets’ wives have to live for, after their husbands had gone? “Is there any family at all? Brothers, sisters?”
    “No one here. I am sorry.”
    “Who might know something about him? You said you were his friend.”
    “He was a great man and he died. There is nothing more to tell.”
    Kane gazed into the sunlight, looking down at the cobbled village street. “I don’t suppose you have a bookstore here.”
    “The nearest one is back in Puerto Vale, where you came from.”
    “You knew I came from there?”
    The man shrugged. “The car. Cars always come from Puerto Vale.”
    Against his better judgment, Kane handed the man a few coins and went back to the car. In a few moments he was heading back the way he had come.
    On the main street of Puerto Vale he parked the rented car and started off on foot, half expecting to encounter Doris coming out of some shop with an exotic native carving for their new home back in the States. He found a bookstore in the second block, a dimly lit place that was deep and narrow like some overlooked alley between the stores on either side. Inside, he hesitated before the long shelves of books, uncertain of their arrangement.
    “Can I be of assistance?” a voice asked in unmistakably American tones. Kane turned and saw a stout middle-aged man with a short black beard.
    “Is this your shop?”
    The man nodded. “Harry Green’s the name. You’re American, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. Kane Wingate. I just stopped over here for a few days. I think perhaps you can help me.”
    The beard wagged up and down. “Certainly. Were you sent here by anyone?”
    “No, not really.”
    “I think I have just what you want,” Harry Green decided suddenly, and hurried away down the alley of books. Kane stared after him. He returned in a moment bearing an oversized volume under his arm. “The finest engravings,” he told Kane, opening it at random. The picture was an obscene photograph of two men.
    “That isn’t what I had in mind. Do you have any books of poetry by Ramon Mandown?”
    “Who? Mandown? No, you have to realize that this is something of a specialty shop.”
    “I can see that. Where could I find some?”
    “Well, I don’t exactly know. Mandown isn’t read much around here.”
    “I gathered that. He’s buried in an unmarked grave.”
    Harry Green’s expression changed. “You’ve been looking for his grave?”
    “I have. Do you know anything about it?”
    “Why should I?”
    “Were you here at the time of his death?”
    “Yes.”
    “Look, damn it! Will somebody please tell me why everyone is afraid to talk about it?”
    Harry Green looked down at the floor. “Sometimes you can get in real trouble talking about murder.”
    “Murder!”
    “I have to go now. I’ve said too much.” He patted his beard into place and retreated once more into the